ts are when the intangibilities prevail and
pervade and possess. In the king's palace there must have been
shrines to intangibilities--as there should be everywhere--for they
seemed to come there, and belong.

The mere happenings included, for example, a talk that St. George
had with Mr. Augustus Frothingham on the terrace after luncheon,
in which St. George laid before the lawyer a plan which he had
virtually matured and of which he himself thought very well.
Thought so well, because of its possibilities, that his face was
betrayingly eager as he told about it. It was, briefly, that
inasmuch as four of the six men who could scale the mountain were
now on its summit, and inasmuch as all the airships were there
also, now, therefore, they, the guests on the island of Yaque,
were in a perfectly impregnable position--counting out Fifth
Dimension contingencies, which of course might include appearings
as well as disappearings--and why shouldn't they stay there, and
let the ominous noon of the following day slip by unmarked? And
when the lawyer said, "But, my dear fellow," as he was bound to
say, St. George answered that down there in Med there would be, by
noon of the following day, two determined persons who, if Jarvo
would get word to them, would with perfect certainty find Mr. Otho
Holland, the king, if he were on the island. And when "Well, but
my dear fellow" occurred again, St. George replied with deference
that he knew it, but although he never had managed an airship he
fancied that perhaps he might help with one; and down there in the
harbour was a yacht waiting to sail for New York, and therefore no
one need even set foot on the island who didn't wish. And Mr.
Frothingham laid one long hand on each coat-lapel and threw back
his head until his hair rested on his collar, and he looked at the
palace--that Titan thing of the sky with ramparts of air--and
said, "Nothing in all my experience--" and St. George left him,
deep in thought.

On the way back he chanced upon Mrs. Hastings, seated on a bench of
lapidescent wood in the portico--and a Titanic portico it looked by
day--and, having sent for the palace chef, she was attempting to
write down the recipe for the salad of that day's luncheon, although
it was composed chiefly of fowls now extinct everywhere excepting in
Yaque.

"But my poultry man will get them for me," she urged with
determination; "I have only to tell him the name of what I want, and
he can always